


The Meal-time Talk

by SarcasticValarauko



Category: Dark Souls (Video Games), Dark Souls III
Genre: Aldrich is His Own Warning, Cannibalism, Creepy Tree-man Scheming, Headcanon, Heavy Drinking, I put the warning tags here, M/M, Not Beta Read, Not So Smooth Talking, Pre-Canon, Pre-Dark Souls III, Smooth Talking, Suly has come to cooperate but Aldrich wants to eeeat
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-07
Updated: 2020-08-15
Packaged: 2021-03-04 20:42:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25122598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SarcasticValarauko/pseuds/SarcasticValarauko
Summary: A  scholar from the Lothric Grand Archives has come to Cathedral of the Deep to seek some help, which his superiors in Lothric would try to murder him immediately if they find out what it means. Aldrich was not glad for the young scholar's presence due to seeing old Lothric men staying around and convincing him to kill himself in that damn fire. But he soon realized that Sulyvahn's true intention was no child's play.And more following stories purely out of my headcanon.
Relationships: Aldrich Devourer of Gods/Sulyvahn the Tyrant
Comments: 12
Kudos: 13





	1. The Cursed Dinner

**Author's Note:**

> Chapter 1: My headcanon of Sulyvahn and Aldrich meeting for the first time (when Aldrich crawled out of his grave just a few days before, maybe). I imagined them having a horrible meal together while talking about severe treason lol. 
> 
> Written last month. I found this in my notebook and decided to post it. English is not my first language, so please feel free to tell me if the writing has bugs related to language, and please leave a comment if you like this work! Thank you very much!

The feast was held in one of the high-roofed halls in the Cathedral of the Deep, so the deacons led Sulyvahn through the intricate hallways and narrow passes of this deeply contaminated domain. He was told that Saint Aldrich was tremendously positive about this unusual meeting with him——a mere scholar of the Grand Archives. He walked among the murmuring deacons with an empty stomach and a mind full of speeches. Aldrich must be a quiet person when he eats, since he put all his mind into delicious meat, indulging in the pleasure that human flesh never failed to provide. The name of Aldrich the Saint was already infamous for gluttony, and especially cannibalism, not to say the Church that served him. Notwithstanding, the Church of the Deep would be a vital ally when he confronts Anor Londo with the army of King Ocerios, so Aldrich was someone whose trust he had to earn. Sulyvahn had to take his chance.

The dark-colored carpets were damp with grey water, and the smell of mold and mud seemed to leak from every crevice on the stone walls. They went past room after room, leaving the voices of the choir and distant screams behind. Candles were lit in countless, well-sculpted niches in the wall, casting dim yellow light on the indigo robes of the deacons, and Sulyvahn’s own dressing. The warmth, although the slightest of bright daylight, mingled strangely with the coldness around. The feeling made his wings tremble beneath his garb, like young twigs (indeed the wings were branches) at the mercy of a wildfire. Here was nothing like his homeland, the ever-snowing Painted World, where everything was freezing to a degree of drought, and the only warmth and moisture was blood, the rotting grubs, and abhorrent eggs of huge flies. His home was a nightmare, and he had hoped so much when he left it.

After deciding now not being the time to be emotional, Sulyvahn kept walking. When they arrived at the hall in which the small meeting would be hold, Aldrich was already waiting. The huge, sluggish pile of slime that formed his body now occupied almost half the room. The deacons bowed and withdrew, leaving Sulyvahn alone with their Saint, and closed the grand and aged wooden door. The scholar bent his knees, lowering his head as a proper salutation. “Your Holiness,” he said, before taking a cautious peep at the long table, he glanced the whole room. Most of Aldrich’s semi-liquid body sat on an oversized armchair, leaning against a high back that boosted the magnitude of the chair even more. The rest of his slippery body was oozing and bubbling lazily on the cold stone floor. By the other end of the table——the side closer to himself, Sulyvahn noticed a smaller chair (still big enough to make him sit comfortably) was prepared. A suffice amount of food was waiting for them. Maybe much more than suffice.

“Glad to see you, Sulyvahn,” Aldrich sounded amused, “I was afraid you’re not coming. I let the deacons prepare this feast for you, and I hope it won’t be suffering to your tongue.” He pointed out a tendril of slime, and gestured towards the empty chair, “to me, the greatest welcoming of the Deep has to be a pleasing meal. Come and sit down, here, and let the nice little banquet begin, shall we?” Sulyvahn straightened his back from the modest bow, and sat down on the armchair, feeling himself sunken into the soft, silky cushions. “My honor,” he replied. He raised his head a little to face Aldrich, to look at the Saint’s non-existing eyes, but his gaze fell heavily on what was at the other side of the long square table. Held in white porcelain plates, well cut and skinned and washed. Pink, scarlet, and grey. Some even slightly throbbed.

Raw meat. Plenty of it: carefully placed in fine vessels. Despite its color and amount, the flesh almost looked like plates of lovely desserts. An obscure feeling rose in him. Sulyvahn felt vaguely disgusted. He tried not to show any trace of discomfort, but his untrained reactions already revealed himself. Aldrich laughed heartily when he saw the scholar’s head tilted back a bit while his hands gripped the napkin.

“What’s holding you, my guest?” The Saint inquired, like he ever cared how people feel. He did not try to hide the amusement in his voice. Sulyvahn raised his gaze up again at Aldrich, giving a plain smile like nothing was wrong. He took the silver knife and fork, then started to eat the food before him.

It was hard for any normal person to eat while a pile of raw flesh is only a few feet away, on the same table with his own dishes. The meal was surprisingly good, however: the vegetable were something that never grows in Ariandel, with fresh juice, thick leaves and healthy roots, baked and boiled to the best degree of tastiness; the grilled meat was also a fine dish, tender and rich in flavor, dipped in delicious sauces and fragrant oil. He continued to eat as elegantly as he can, hiding his discomfort while Aldrich chatted about the skillful cooks and butchers from the Undead Settlement, and about the once fertile fields and gardens of Lothric. Nowadays plants grew badly, and animals skinny and feeble. The food before him was abundant, but he finished his meal rather quickly because of his small appetite. He turned his thoughts back on Aldrich again. The Saint did not eat. All he did was to watch Sulyvahn’s move curiously, ignoring his own dishes. He watched him cut and chew and swallow and repeat this process over and over again. He watched like the movement of simply consuming food was as enchanting as a beautiful dance show. Sulyvahn felt puzzled. He put down his fork when Aldrich’s endless babbling came to a halt, and he spoke what he waited long to speak.

“I appreciate your thoughts, Saint Aldrich.” He worried if he sounds abruptly disgraceful. “I feel like traveling to Lothric’s farther edge sometime but excuse me for the rudeness: we have more urgent events to talk about. The fire-linking curse has separated the city and disturbed the peace even in Anor Londo. King Ocerios was weak, so he seeks other ways to flee from his fate. Now the fire fades, and the Lords of Cinder like yourself have all refused to burn again, and——”

Aldrich interrupted his well-prepared speech, “so you are one of them, I see. Hoodwinking me back to that damned kiln to die again. Leave, right now, for no one changes my mind on it.” He waved his tendrils to the door, “and tell the gods and kings to screw themselves.” Sulyvahn smiled. He did not move a bit. A furious and confused growl escaped the Saint’s mouth, or whatever organ that makes him create sounds. He rose like a dark storm over the roof, blocking most of the daylight from the windows. The candle flames shook and withered. “What is it, Sulyvahn? Does the order of your masters keep you from your own good?” Sulyvahn’s smile widened to a kind grin.

“I feel deeply sorry for what I’ve said——I should have go to my topic sooner. Please, Saint Aldrich, let me finish my words, please.” His head ached because of excitement and looming fear: the deacons had intended to leave his swords outside. “I did not even come to keep the first flame burning, not to say bringing you back to death. Just let me make it clear enough: I want the flame to be extinguished. We need it to be, as the time of gods come to its end.” Aldrich fell silent, suddenly intrigued. Sulyvahn continued as the Saint listened to these seditious words: “the gods were cowards, and fools. They made us believe that the world is no more if the fire were gone. But there is no such thing. Before the fire there was the age of archdragons, and after the fire there will be a new time, led by those who survived, and the gods’ reign will be no more. They deceived us, my Saint, their lies had poisoned us for thousands of years, coaxing us to be powerful and then die for them, to keep their good times going on.” He halted and breathed deeply, watching Aldrich’s move. To his surprise, the Saint reached for his dinner and ate. The piles of raw meat started to disappear into the slick black substance, devoured by the deep’s endless appetite. Sulyvahn did not clench his fingers: he will get used to this soon enough.

“Then what do you do, scholar? I have heard your big little opinions, but how could you manage to topple the gods from their thrones? How exactly would you end the flames?” Aldrich said as he kept eating.

Sulyvahn stared at him and spoke. “I need the alliance of the Church of the Deep. Since you have just come out of your former death, the other lords also refused to link the fire again. Like you, they returned to wherever they need, and back to whatever they do. The bell will toll soon, and the unkindled will rise and take the lords back to their thrones. Your Church has the control over outer Lothric and below the High Wall, over the road of sacrifices and the passage to Farron Keep. To stop the ashen ones from every one of the Lords, your assistance is essential.” He waited a few seconds to see if the Saint has any reaction. Aldrich laughed.

“Sure, it is, you’ve got some plans. But there are forces against you: the god in Anor Londo and his Darkmoon Blades. Gwyndolin will not cease to protect what his father had started. The Darkmoon Blades will hunt you down, bringing back the old royalty. What would you do with them? The warriors of Lothric are loyal to their masters. But slay gods they will not.”

Sulyvahn’s smile melted into dreamy determination.

“I will,” he said, as if claiming a prize.

Aldrich bubbled in delight, “that’s what I want to hear. When I first time saw you, I knew you are far more than a scholar. You are grand and crude, more coldblooded than any of the assassins of Londor. I am willing to be your ally, but I have the last question.”

The plotter waited to hear it.

“What can you offer to me? As you would have known, I share no interest in a beautiful new age or such. The crown is nothing to me. How could you make it worthy for me to labor myself for your goal? Convince me, Sulyvahn. Flatter me.”

Confidence puffed in his chest like burning smoke. “I can give you nothing for now, but I can promise you, there will be an extraordinary meal.”  
He raised his hands in the air, like drawing the outline of an offering, “you always love the flavor of humans, but have you ever imagined, what does the flesh of gods tastes like? Yes, I intend to say, especially the fresh and tender Gwyndolin.”

Aldrich swallowed, a gaping mouth cracked on his slime face, forming a horrible smile. “You understand me well enough. So that is the deal. Tomorrow the Church of the Deep will make the formal announcement, and you will be called Pontiff.”

Sulyvahn answered, thanked, inhaled and relaxed, taking as much the air of this room as possible into his lungs, savoring the moment of success. The last step of preparations was done, and he could finally start something. Aldrich called the deacons in, talking about the affairs to be managed as they pour the wine.


	2. A Drink with the Devourer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This takes place after Gwyndolin's death and before DS3, when Aldrich and Suly are already like an old married couple. 
> 
> Aldrich having a strangely fluffy time with a drunk Alcoholic!Sulyvahn. 
> 
> It's hard not to be a drinker when he's the Pontiff. Alcohol helps Suly to keep himself from the cold and dying Irithyll and Anor Londo, but only to give him terrible hangovers after.

The nights were warm in Anor Londo before its last god fell. Now the ever-sunny kingdom drowned in endless winter, the snow kept falling like a curtain over the high castles and stairways. Instead of the bright, burning sun, a pale moon hung low in the purple velvet sky. The city was already abandoned, a shell left in an army’s wake. The Pontiff has blocked all paths from the High Wall of Lothric to the Grand Archives, keeping the Lords of Cinder and the city of the old royalty from any unwanted visitor. The first flame hungers and shaking, but it got no fuel. Only a night from the day the city Anor Londo was taken, the bell tolled. Ashen ones rose from their graves and marched, but Sulyvahn believed no one breaks through the defense he created. At that time, the Dark Sun had been sent to the devourer, who claimed Anor Londo Cathedral to himself. To guard his ally, Sulyvahn stayed in Irithyll, protecting the only pathway to the abandoned cathedral, where Aldrich would like to have his feast. As Gwyndolin’s life left his body, the long sunset began. 

No place is better than Irithyll if one wanted the most beautiful scenery of a winter. The snow was as bright as silver and crystal, carpeting the streets white. Sulyvahn never genuinely loved the Boreal Valley because the wind was so frigid, and ice sprawling on walls and floor, all these reminded him of his wretched homeland, the rotting Painted World. His will struggled to make him leave, but his instincts made him stay. The intense coldness made him concentrate, his thoughts clear and sharp. He was not used to the sweet warmth of central Lothric, and every time he stayed too long, dizziness caught him like a disease. To Aldrich it was different: The Saint was born and brought up in Lothric, and the freezing weather of Irithyll tortured his nerves. He chose to leave and stayed in Anor Londo, but soon enough the coldness there would grow. 

Since Aldrich could not stand the temperature (and maybe the fire witches and watchdogs) of the Boreal Valley, Sulyvahn always come to the abandoned cathedral to meet him. As the Pontiff of the Deep, his duty was heavy. From the hourly wages of undead guards of Road of Sacrifices, to the bureaucratic meetings with the Twin Princes’ heralds, the Pontiff was astonishingly busy. And stressed out. 

That was all the excuse he needed to drink himself to unconsciousness when he had the time to. 

Residents in the Boreal Valley rarely consumed drinks. The people were puritans who had faith in the Darkmoon so deep that they pray to the fragile god for hours every day. Alcohol was too strong for their entertainment, so Sulyvahn seek what he wanted from Lothric and places farther away. Compared to mild drinks, he preferred aged wines, and strong, intoxicating liquor. Deacons send him what he asked for, from time to time, so he could ensure that the drawers in his private chamber wouldn’t be emptied of bottles. Most of the time he drank alone, enjoying the pristine moonlight casting through the windows. The moon was always pure and unchanged, even after what happened to poor Gwyndolin. Drinking to this, contentment rose in his head. 

Sometimes, at nights when Anor Londo wasn’t so cold, he would come to Aldrich and they talk. Not about the usual business they’d discuss, but of deeper and more emotional topics. They had few things in common, but they still talked anyway. Aldrich dreamed of the future very often, usually it was a glimpse of color or smell, but enough for them to know that after the fire there will be the sea. Water, salt, blood, moonlight. They waited, but even for them the waiting sometimes grew unbearable. 

On a night when the moon was outstandingly bright, he went to his old friend again, bringing his drink for the first time. He arrived in evening, stepping into the cathedral, his footsteps soundless. Aldrich was enjoying his meal: he consumed Gwyndolin’s corpse extremely slow, trying his best to taste as much as time allowed him. Before he finished, the body would be his living puppet. His greeting was as passionate as usual: a full smile and open arms——Gwyndolin’s sickly limbs and long nails, of course. They belonged to him now. 

“What brought you here again, my dear Pontiff? The moon is beautiful tonight. Is that what you want to do with me, to watch the moon together?” He asked, pointing to the elegant floor-to-ceiling windows beside him. Drenched in moonlight, the silk curtains billowed with nighttime wind, reflecting silver colors. 

“Beautiful moon indeed, Aldrich. I come to drink with you.” He made it straight, having experienced the awkwardness of their first encounter a few months ago, Sulyvahn had learned that no matter how kind Aldrich pretended to be, he had little patience. “I brought the wine,” he said, “we can go upstairs.” He held the finely shaped bottle in his hand, admiring the dark red liquid under the milky light. 

Aldrich nodded eagerly. Gwyndolin’s face looked silly and fiendish under his control. He shifted his weight and turned his back to Sulyvahn, leading the way up. They went upstairs to the old hallways and chambers——precious legacy of the old gods, and sat in a room with fewer furniture and more windows. Sulyvahn leaned against the back of a chair as Aldrich prepared their glasses. The Devourer moved easily, seemed like the Dark Sun’s power had given him back the ability of swiftness. The lower part of his body was still black sticky slime, but it crawled like water, or a quick snake, the speed far exceeding his mobility before. What remained of Gwyndolin shifted and bent and rose, holding the delicate glass in his hand. He set the cups oh the table, beside Sulyvahn, and poured the wine for him like a maid as his pallid fingers danced. The Pontiff took a glass and sipped the expensive liquid, while Aldrich drank from another one. His soft throat had never swallowed something like this before, but Gwyndolin could never feel discomfort or anything anymore. 

“Your crown. Is it a new one?” Sulyvahn asked. The crown of the Dark Sun used to be a delicate ornament, but on Aldrich’s head there was a piece of golden and black metal, sharp and spikey, the shape seemed to be molten and solidified for several times. Aldrich put down his glass and caressed his crown. Those fingers brushed against the gold. “Just the old one, but I burned it to make some changes. Now it resembles the sun’s eclipse.” Sulyvahn loved the idea, so he drank to that. Aldrich drank, too, elegantly, but alcohol wouldn’t have any effect on his alienated body anymore. He drank only because he wanted to do the same as Sulyvahn, so they could at least have some something normal to do together, pretending to be at peace. After a moment of speechlessness, He put down the emptied glass, unmasked himself and held Aldrich’s waist between his hands as the Devourer rose higher, burying his face into the genderless body’s supple chest. The lovely breasts were small, barely recognizable under the black clothes. Aldrich put his arms around Sulyvahn’s neck, pressing him to himself as he whispered to his Pontiff’s ears. 

“I’ve got something for you, right at the back here.” He said when Sulyvahn pushed his blouse and tunic up to his ribcage, exposing the dead flesh under. The skin was strangely warm: Aldrich filled every blood vessel and cell with black slime, and the heat from a Lord of Cinder. Aldrich pushed him away and stroked his clothes back to where they belong. “Just wait.” He scooted out of the door, leaving a dark oily trace on the marble floor. 

Sulyvahn sat back. The heat of the Devourer’s body remained in his hands and face, provoking creeping lust. He drank the cold liquid to cease it. When Aldrich came back, he already drained his glass again. As a creature from Ariandel, his body was colder than any human, not to say a Lord of Cinder, but wine gave an interesting feeling that warmed him from the inside. He didn’t drink very much, but mild drunken dizziness caught him unawares. 

Aldrich went through the door with another bottle in his hand. Under the moonlight, it looked like amber. Aldrich grinned, facial muscles pulling, the corners of his mouth gaped almost to his ears. “This is good stuff,” he laughed, “something my Archdeacon gave me before my first death. I would like you to taste it.” He moved to beside the table, closing his distance with his Pontiff while opening the glass bottle with his powerful long fingers and nails, tearing the brown wax seal. With a musical pop sound, the cork was plucked out. Aldrich’s fingers were astute like a device made for plucking people’s eyeballs out. He poured the content into a cup. Just the smell of it made Sulyvahn’s eyes water, and his stomach twitched in both fear and delight. Strong liquor, perhaps so strong that it would burn like a weapon. 

Sulyvahn only had a vague memory of what happened next. The drink was a bliss: it made him almost forget all the pain from his past. A whirlwind of unconsciousness flew through his mind, ravaging his senses. At the feasts with Gwyndolin, he never drank anything stronger than hippocras. 

He woke up and found himself resting against a warm mess: black slime holding him like a soft cushion would do. All Sulyvahn’s jewels and other ornaments were carefully removed and laid aside. The gentle hands that did it were now placed between his wings, caressing, almost like a lover’s. His head throbbed as if going to explode. The smell of alcohol was fading, so was the burning taste on his tongue. 

Sulyvahn looked up and saw a familiar face. Gwyndolin, he almost said that out loud. Maybe in the night before, he already called the name instead of his Saint’s. 

He lay face up on warm slime, and Aldrich towered above him. The thin corpse he possessed only casted a narrow shadow, but in Sulyvahn’s drunken vision it was a tower nonetheless. Aldrich looked down at him, or so he presumed. The devourer held Sulyvahn in his slender arms, his headpiece slightly askew. Gwyndolin’s downcast eyes were hidden under it. Through a little gash between the metal and his face, the eyes could be seen just like the moon and stars behind golden evening clouds. 

Before Sulyvahn could speak, Aldrich leaned close in slow motion, mimicked breaths came in and out from the corpse, leaving little heat on his skin. Reluctantly, he focused his eyes on the Lord of Cinder. Aldrich had been taking care of his new face: fine white powder covered all the signs of rotting. Although just a layer of makeup, he rarely beheld Gwyndolin’s beauty this close. Compared to the face of the Darkmoon God, now it was almost seamless like a porcelain mask. With every smile and frown, the pale, cold layer could shift like a curtain. 

“Sleeping well, my Pontiff?” The devourer whispered, controlling Gwyndolin’s tender throat to speak. The lazy voice made him shudder. This was something Sulyvahn could never hear when his God was alive. 

“Good day, Your Holiness…” Sulyvahn tried to straighten his back and sit up but failed, sinking into the slime deeper. His body was aching, his throat sore with every syllable that came out of him. Their surroundings blurred in a throb in his head. “May I ask, where are we?” 

“Look at you, Sulyvahn,” Aldrich didn’t answer his question. “You are my ally. How are you going to help me like this? How can you fight for me like this? Drunk and dizzy and bone-tired, struggling to keep yourself together?” Deep chuckles burst from Aldrich’s slime as he spoke. His hands cupped Sulyvahn’s face, as if to demand an answer from the Pontiff. “Sleep now, I’ll have your apology later in the evening.” 

Without giving second thoughts of what would happen to him later, Sulyvahn closed his eyes again. The embrace of dead arms reminded him of a colder home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ᕕ( ᐛ )ᕗ Okay, enough fluff for me! I need more angst and more of my horrible kinks here. Plz tell me in the comment if there are any problem with the language! And also leave a comment if you like this fic, thank you very much!!

**Author's Note:**

> I'm working on my headcanons turning into stories, so probably I'll do more chapters! :))))


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